The Bluestocking
by Tarlea
Summary: When Edith Crawley's father suddenly makes her an heiress, all assume her profligate cousin Patrick Crawley will offer for her. But when she overhears the gentleman describing her as an "insufferable bluestocking," she decides to make his prophecy come true. Yet, while she is repelling one suitor, she may just attract another...
1. Chapter: The First

**A/N: All Credit to Georgette Heyer, whose superb research unearthed many of the Regency expressions used in this story, and whose delightful novels inspired this work. She had her works pillaged so often during her lifetime, I feel I must give credit where credit is due. If you enjoy this story even a little bit, I encourage you to seek out her novels; my favorites are _Faro's Daughter_, _Venetia_, and _The Toll Gate_.**

**Apologies to Cora Crawley; and Robert and Patrick Crawley, who, for dramatic purposes, I have turned into something of villains.**

* * *

blue·stock·ing: (n) an educated woman who is interested in books and ideas

The term most often refers to a specific group of 18th-century intellectual women led by the hostess and critic Elizabeth Montagu; who may or may not have actually worn blue stockings.

* * *

**Chapter: The First**

The Dowager Countess Violet Crawley harrumphed satisfactorily. She folded the letter she had just been reading and brandished it resolutely at her granddaughter.

"Well, it is all set. At long last, your cousin Patrick will be coming to stay with us on Wednesday next."

Edith Crawley looked up from her needlework, only mildly interested. "Oh?" she commented.

"Don't pretend to be ignorant of what this means, my dear. I may not set any store by the Season, but I know my duty as your grandmother, and it is high time you were settled."

"You mean father has been scolding you again," Edith said archly.

"Your father is right, my dear. And with this disagreement between Mr. Crawley and Lord Grantham, it would be very tidy if he were to make an offer for you."

Edith pursed her lips and focused on her stitch. Her father, who had little time for his three daughters before his wife died, and none for them after she passed, had fixated all his time and affection on his first cousin Patrick. While the girls were sent to live with various relations, the Earl of Grantham had established a town residence with Patrick and his father, James, and had seen the boy through Oxford. Since that gentleman's graduation, Lord Grantham had been paying for his every whim—which of late had taken him to become a patron of several notorious gambling hells, where he had swiftly lost a fortune at hazard. This had given his adoptive father pause, and after a quarrel about it, that worthy gentleman had hastily made over his will, leaving his entire fortune to Edith, with a substantial amount coming to her as a dowry. It was clear to anyone that he believed this would force Patrick to marry his middle daughter, thus ridding him of the burden of her and confident that she would curb his spendthrift ways.

As soon as the news had reached her of Edith's new status as an heiress, the Dowager had begun making preparations for a ball at which she hoped Edith might gain enough eligible parti to make a fair choice. However, she had invited Patrick early, in hopes that he might gain the advantage.

Goodness knows she had been quite in despair about finding a match for Edith. At twenty, the middle Crawley daughter was what some might call on the shelf. This was not precisely true as she had never been on the market in a formal way. Her grandmother did not care for London society, and so, much to her dismay, Edith had never done the season, danced at Almack's, gone to the theater, driven in Hyde Park, or participated in all the other social conventions designed to show a marriageable young lady off to eligible gentlemen.

However, Edith doubted very much if she would have fared very well in London, where her sisters had been fortunate enough to be living with relatives who did not eschew society. Mary, the eldest, was what many gentlemen would call a diamond of the first water, and had several offers before she was properly out. She was now happily married and expecting, and yet still had several young tulips writing sonnets to her. Sybil, the youngest Crawley sister, was more outspoken than Mary, but still reckoned "a prime article." She too, was off the market, engaged to the younger son of a country squire, a lawyer named Mr. Branson. It was not at all the match that her father had wished for his youngest daughter, but it was a love match, and when Sybil had threatened to make for Gretna Green he had broken down and given his consent. Next to them, Edith was sure to be a disappointment, and though her heart longed to escape the drudgery of Yorkshire life, she had come to have a very low expectation of her future. That is, until her father had unexpectedly made her a considerable catch.

She viewed the coming ball with both excitement and apprehension, and after some consideration had decided she did not care to marry simply for convenience. She determined to accept no offer which came from a place of penury rather than affection. Unless of course, she reasoned, she was so unfortunate as to lose her heart.

* * *

So Wednesday came, and the day stretched on, Edith waiting patiently to welcome Mr. Crawley, dutifully wearing her best frilled morning dress. Morning turned to afternoon and there was still no sign of the wayward gentleman. Then, just as Edith had begun to change for dinner, a carriage arrived bearing her prodigal cousin. Edith dressed quickly, but carefully, wearing her newest gown of blue-green satin and with a blond lace overdress, which the local tailor had cleverly cut to disguise her unfashionably thin figure. She allowed her maid, Anna, to pile her braids high upon her head and fix them with pearled combs, and place matching pearl earrings in her ears and a stunning string of pearls around her neck. When Anna stepped back to admire her work, Edith couldn't help feeling proud of her glamorous reflection.

She descended the steps slowly, feeling quite nervous in spite of herself. Her grandmother had invited another gentleman for dinner, their neighbor, Sir Anthony Strallan, whose estate, Loxley, was separated by only a mere ha-ha from Downton Abbey, and who had only days before returned from India. Since his wife's death he was seldom in England, and then spent most of his time in London, so that Edith had never met him. Yet it was rumored that this time he was back for good.

When she reached the drawing room door, Edith could hear the gentlemen's voices from within.

"Thanks for coming with me, Napier. I was apt to jump in the lake out of boredom otherwise. I ain't cut out for country life."

"Your servant, dear fellow," replied The Honorable Evelyn Napier. "Who's the fellow in the corner?"

Patrick Crawley raised his eyeglass and surveyed the older gentleman, whose dress was, he had to admit, in excellent taste, made all the more striking by the limp right arm that lay in a sling at his front. A member of the dandy set himself, Mr. Crawley wrinkled his nose at the gentleman's tanned complexion.

"Sir Anthony Strallan," he informed his companion. "Just returned from India, I'm told. Full of juice, lives on the other side of the hedge, so the old lady invited him."

"I gather our hostess has planned quite a reception for tomorrow evening," said Mr. Napier.

"Fishing for suitors for my dear little cousin, no doubt," Patrick Crawley drawled. "Though I imagine it will be overstuffed with bracket-faced country girls with next to no breeding and grasping pushy mamas."

"I doubt it will be as bad as all that. But perhaps we can get up a hand in one of the other rooms. Anyone coming?"

"Well, Grey said he might, and Sampson. One foot in the River Tick last time I saw him, so he's sure to make a try for Cousin Edith."

"Unless you beat him to it?" Mr. Napier suggested.

Mr. Crawley kicked at the grate irritably. "Perhaps."

Patrick Crawley had not intended to marry, until Lord Grantham had forced his hand. He had been greatly indulged for most of this life, and he disliked being managed. Yet it was undeniably true that unless he married Edith he would be no better off than Mr. Sampson.

"What's she like, this cousin of yours?" Mr. Napier asked.

"Ain't seen her since we were brats. I hear she's not much to look at. Never was, really. I'd lay odds she's grown up to be an insufferable bluestocking, sickly to boot I daresay, and an honorary member of the Clapham Sect," he sneered.

"You can't know that. Perhaps she has turned out well," Mr. Napier said diplomatically. "Either way, you're in too deep to throw away that inheritance,"

"I ain't so purse-pinched I have to make up to some damned chit" Mr. Crawley said, snatching up his glass and taking a generous gulp.

Mr. Napier raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

On the other side of the door, Edith coloured. Mr. Crawley's rude comments stung, but more than hurt, she was filled with the desire to seek revenge on her vain relation. Her better judgment was no match for the mischievous scheme brewing beneath her curls.

In a swish of skirts she turned and hurried up the stairs to her room, stripping off her gloves and plunging into her wardrobe. She selected her dowdiest gown which was unfashionable enough to sport not a single flounce, and besides possessed a frilled high neckline. Any tulip of fashion would have choked to death at the sight of it. At her dressing table she changed her jewelry for a simple cross, and pulled her piled braids into a chaste knot. She wrapped a simple walking shawl around her shoulders and clutched a handkerchief. For a finishing touch, she scurried down the hallway to her grandmother's room and slipped a hanging vinaigrette around her neck. Upon examining herself in her grandmother's mirror she could only giggle, so much did she resemble the bore of Mr. Crawley's horrid imaginings. She only wished she had a pair of spectacles and a copy of Wilberforce's_ Proclamation_ to carry with her.

When she finally entered the drawing room, she came haltingly, hunching forward with one hand clutching the vinaigrette. She scrunched her eyes to squinting as if the light of the fire were too much for her.

The gentlemen turned when she entered, and Patrick Crawley, surveying her through his quizzing glass, only just managed to keep his countenance. The Dowager Countess was not so fortunate. Her hospitable smile vanished and in its place was a formidable scowl. She shot her granddaughter a most speaking look before saying, in a voice of feigned lightness, "Gentlemen, may I present my granddaughter, Miss Edith Crawley. Edith, this is Sir Anthony Strallan, our new neighbor, Mr. Evelyn Napier, and of course you will remember cousin Crawley."

Mr. Crawley continued to suppress his disgust and gave an obsequious bow, perhaps more to show off the cut of his exquisite coat than to do deference to his newly reintroduced cousin. Mr. Napier gave a discreet bow and a kind "Your servant, M'am." Sir Anthony gave a simple nod, one eyebrow cocked as he studied her critically.

Edith felt herself blush under the scrutiny. For a moment her nerves failed her, but when she caught sight of the superior glint in Mr. Crawley's eye, she put her chin up (or down, as the case was) and said, in a shrill voice.

"How very pleased I am to meet you. You will forgive me, I am not feeling at all well this evening."

With that she sank meekly onto the sofa and brought her handkerchief to her mouth. She had to try hard not to catch her aunt's eye or she would be sure to burst into giggles and then the game would be up. So she resolutely kept her eyes down.

"I am greatly distressed to hear that, m'am," Mr. Napier commented.

She gave him a weak smile. "So very kind, Mr. Napier."

The room fell silent again, Mr. Crawley totally absorbed in laying out snuff on his wrist. The Dowager's voice echoed loud in the silence.

"And how are you gentlemen liking Yorkshire? It is lovely this time of year. You should be able to get some hunting in. Or riding, as you choose."

Mr. Crawley sneezed and then said, in a voice lacking any curiosity, "Do you ride, Miss Crawley?"

"Oh, I fear that the climate this time of year may be too damp for me to ride."

"I see. Do you play cards?"

"I play whist, though I fear I am not very good."

Lady Painswick stifled a frown. Edith frequently gave everyone in the household a thorough beating in whist. She also played loo, macao, and, unbeknownst to her grandmother, the occasional game of piquet with one of the neighbors.

"To own the truth, dear cousin," Edith said wailingly, "I much prefer a book to most amusements of society."

Mr. Crawley's polite smile could not hide the smirk attempting to break through it. Edith felt a surge of triumph, knowing that her cousin was at that moment thinking how dull his stay at Downton was to be.

The Dowager Countess was looking as though she would very much like to place Edith over her knee and give her a sound spanking when Carson ducked in to announce that dinner was being served.

At dinner, Edith was, of course, placed next to Mr. Crawley, yet across from Sir Anthony. He was still quietly surveying her.

Edith ate little at dinner, sipping disdainfully at her wine.

"I do begin to believe you are quite unwell, dear cuz," Mr. Crawley drawled.

"Indeed, I fear my constitution is not particularly strong. Most nights I take a broth on a tray in my room. Such rich food and drink do not agree with me."

"You have barely touched your wine," he noted.

"I believe in a temperate lifestyle. Have you read Mr. Rush's _Inquiry_? He has many good arguments to make on the matter."

This time Mr. Crawley did nothing to hide his smirk. "I shall have to put it on my list," he mumbled, taking a generous gulp from his wine glass and turning to converse with Lady Painswick. Their side partners engaged elsewhere, Sir Anthony spoke to Edith for the first time that evening.

"Have _you_ read Rush's _Inquiry_?" he asked gently.

"Of course I have," she sputtered.

He nodded.

"And have you read any works by Mr. Macaulay?"

"N-no," Edith faltered. "But I mean to as soon as I have finished my current title."

"Ah," he shook his head understandingly, "and what might that be?"

"It's—I—I'm reading a treatise on –on—steam mechanisms. I forget the author."

"I see. And have you an interest in mechanics?"

"Why of course!" she asserted too eagerly. He noted how her cheeks were beginning to flush and thought that the colour leant radiance to her eye. This coupled with the sincerity borne of her discomfiture were wholly alluring.

"And what, Miss Crawley, would you say to those who argue that these new harvesting machines, were they ever to go beyond mere experimentation, might steal the livelihood of the common laborer?"

Edith contradicted her own words as she took a rather generous sip of her wine, trying to think of an answer. Thankfully, at that moment the dowager rose, announcing that it was time for the ladies to depart to the drawing room.

Once there, Edith was subjected to a thorough scolding from her grandmother and aunt. She tried to explain her reasoning, but could not win them to her cause.

"Tomorrow morning," Lady Grantham said firmly, "you will come to me before you go in to breakfast so that I may approve your attire. Is that clear?"

"Yes, grandmamma," Edith said dutifully.

"Now, when the gentlemen come through, I expect you to play for us."

So Edith did as she was told. During the performance, Mr. Patrick Crawley seemed more interested in the fall of his cuffs than in Edith, and Mr. Napier watched politely but seemed to take only moderate enjoyment from it. Sir Anthony, on the other hand, never once took his eyes from Edith. All trace of the invalid disappeared as she lost herself in the music, an intensity showing on her face as she expelled her cares and woes, echoing from the tips of her fingers through the instrument. Anthony noticed all of this, and his heart began to ache for the slings this remarkable young woman had undoubtedly suffered in her life.

When Edith rose from the pianoforte, the party gave praise as was proper. Only Sir Anthony genuinely complimented her playing, making Edith forget her pretense for a few moments as she raised her head and blushed, eager to continue discussing music with a kindred spirit. But she felt Mr. Crawley's eyes upon her and in an instant fell back into character, bowing her head and murmuring a meek, "Thank you, sir."

Next, Sir Anthony, Mr. Crawley, Lady Painswick and Edith sat down to a game of whist, while the dowager and Mr. Napier faced off in a game of chess.

As they played, Edith chattered away about Homer and Montesquieu, having read _The Iliad_ by stages, and a pamphlet outlining the ideals of the great French Philisophe. She had gained much of her education this way, a subscription to _Clarke's Compendium on matters Scientific, Philosophical, Political and Literary_ taking the place of a governess. There were subjects which even Clarke could not make entirely clear to her, and she also held a subscription to _La Belle Assemblée_ and the town's lending library from which she borrowed many a marble-covered romance, but she strove to challenge her mind beyond the simple subjects of music, watercolours, and French which were afforded an accomplished lady in the eyes of society.

Edith retired earlier than usual, stating that it was quite late for her fragile constitution. She avoided a murderous look from her grandmother as she said her good nights and slipped from the room. In her bedroom she grinned to herself at the success of her scheme, reviewing every barely hidden grimace that had passed over her cousin's face. It had taken some will to allow him to trounce her so soundly at whist, but she told herself he would get his just deserts in due course. She changed into her bedclothes and curled up with a novel, but as she read her mind kept straying to Sir Anthony Strallan. He had joined genially in her conversation of the classics, but all the while his clear blue eyes kept a penetrating watch on her, and once or twice she thought she had caught an amused glint when she had protested her incompetence at cards or her disinclination to ride. Well, it didn't signify, even if he suspected her to be ingenuine, Mr. Crawley seemed completely taken in.

She was confirmed in this supposition when, a little while later, the men could be heard retiring to their chambers. Upon tip-toeing to her door she was able to hear her cousin complaining to his companion,

"Lord, Evelyn, I am going to go barking mad if I am forced to become leg-shackled to such a dead bore! My cousin Grantham must be made to change his will again, or there is nothing for it but to throw myself in the Thames."

* * *

**Regency Expressions Used in this Chapter and their Meanings:**

Hazard: a gambling game played with two dice, the precursor of craps, which was often played for very high stakes

eligible parti: a suitable marriage partner

on the shelf: unmarried beyond the usual age of marrying

a diamond of the first water: a remarkably beautiful woman

a prime article: a handsome woman

Gretna Green: the first easily reachable village over the Scottish border, where British laws requiring parental approval for marriages in which the parties were under the age of 21 did not apply, thus it became the place for elopements

Full of juice: wealthy

bracket-faced: ugly, hard-featured

the River Tick: standing debts

purse-pinched: short of money

signify: to be important, to matter, "it don't signify" = "it doesn't matter"

leg-shackled: married

blond lace: is a continuous bobbin lace from France that is made of silk. The term _blond_ refers to the natural color of the silk thread.


	2. Chapter: The Second

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating; I've been working six out of seven days lately, and putting in lots of late nights—plus being a mom of a cranky teething boy! I hope the next chapters will be up before long.**

**This chapter is dedicated to anyone who, like me, may be busy, stressed, or "fagged to death" (tired) and anyone who may be suffering "a fit of the blue-devils" (sad, miserable, or depressed), and particularly Baron Munchausen, whose lovely prose and great kindness are one of the things that make the Andith fandom so wonderful, and who is, most assuredly, "a bang-up cove" (a good-natured, splendid fellow).**

* * *

**Chapter: The Second**

At breakfast, despite the dowager's insistence that Mr. Crawley and Mr. Napier would likely very much enjoy exploring the grounds in Edith's company, her cousin seemed to have his own agenda. Edith was relieved at the prospect of several hours freedom from her charade which had been made all the more difficult to maintain by the fashionable dress she was now wearing at the behest of her grandmother, who had given her headstrong granddaughter such a scold over her combs that Edith had nearly decided to drop her pretense altogether. Thankfully, at breakfast, Mr. Crawley was far more fixated upon talk of a pair of sweetgoers he was to purchase from Mr. Napier than in attending his tedious cousin, so Edith was able to behave just civilly enough to spare her grandmother's wrath without disabusing her cousin of his prejudice. That gentleman set off to Ripon in the company of Mr. Napier shortly after breakfast to "attend to some business" (including posting a conciliatory missive to Lord Grantham), and Edith was able to escape into the temple, conveniently removed from the house by both a generous distance and a grove of trees, making it a favorite hideaway.

It was here that Sir Anthony came upon her, adding Downton to his morning stroll, emboldened by Lady Grantham's assurance that their grounds were so connected that they need not stand on ceremony over boundaries. Edith did not hear him approach, and he couldn't resist taking a few clandestine moments to observe her. She was dressed to advantage this morning, with a flowered bonnet making an alluring frame for her face, her legs crossed indelicately beneath her as she bent over her sketchpad, her face furrowed in concentration. He was able to glimpse a number of other books scattered around her, and among them more than one marble cover.

Enchanting as it was to watch her eyes glint as her hand moved around the page, his sense of propriety soon got the better of him, and he stepped forward and bid her good morning.

"I trust you are well," he added kindly.

Edith jumped a little at his greeting, unfolding her legs and straightening her skirt as she answered "Yes, I thank you."

She hastily snapped her sketchpad closed, but not before Sir Anthony caught a glimpse of a man's face, which he could not be certain was not his own.

He smiled kindly down upon her. "You are looking much better this morning. And, if I may say so, quite charming," he complimented without flourish.

"Oh, I—Thank you," Edith stuttered amid her blushes. "Though I assure you I care little for such fripperies," she added, unable to meet his eyes with her blatant lie.

"Indeed," he agreed soberly. "There are far more worthy things in life than the pursuit of a pretty muslin. How tiresome that someone of your inclination for the scholastic must be burdened down with the demands of fashion."

Edith caught the hint of amusement in his tone and she turned flashing eyes to his, but said nothing.

"I have come to ask you a favor, Miss Crawley."

"A favor?" Edith asked warily.

"My horses stand in great need of exercise. I would be most grateful if you would join me for a short drive to allow the poor creatures to stretch their legs. What do you say?"

Sir Anthony had come upon the scheme of taking Lady Edith driving the previous evening, when he had so keenly observed that she was a young woman in need of far more excitement and affection than she was afforded at the Abbey. He had been strengthened in this determination by the pleasure he had discovered in the company of her bright eyes and quick mind.

Edith blushed again. "Oh, sir!" she exclaimed inadvertently.

The image of herself seated in a smart carriage clipping along at a brisk pace could not fail to appeal to her. Yet even as she anticipated the treat a cautionary voice told her she would have to refuse. She could hardly convince her cousin that she was a dull spinster-to-be if she were seen driving out with a gentleman.

"I—do not think…that is, I do not drive…I…I fear the sun will be too much for me, sir," she protested.

Sir Anthony nodded solicitously, though his blue eyes sparkled with amusement.

"I do sympathize, but perhaps if you were to bring a parasol? I believe this is a time when such fripperies as a fetching bonnet become most beneficial."

"Yes," Edith conceded, rising with an armful of books, and blushing again at his backhanded compliment, "but I fear I feel rather unwell, I had better go inside and lie down."

He examined her under a slightly furrowed brow.

"Ah, then surely the fresh air would do you good. I am certain I have read a treatise to that effect by Dr. Clarkson," he remarked kindly.

"Who is Dr. Clarkson?" Edith asked, interested in spite of herself.

Sir Anthony feigned shock. "Have you not heard of Dr. Clarkson? So well read as you are I should have thought… He is one of the foremost doctors in London, you know. An expert on the health of delicate young ladies such as yourself. I assure you he would most certainly proscribe fresh air in this circumstance."

Edith sighed, defeated. Then, a final excuse struck her. "Sir Anthony, I feel sure my grandmother would disapprove. Surely, even in London, society would deem it improper for a single young lady to go out driving unchaperoned with a gentleman." Edith smiled sweetly up at him; sure she had finally found an escape.

"Indeed this is so. However, in London, ladies avoid the disdain of society by having their maid accompany them."

"Ah yes, how silly of me. Well…I will have to put away my things…"

"That will give me just the time I need to get my team ready. I shall meet you on your front steps in five minutes."

With that he gave her a bow and strode away.

Edith gave a short huff and resigned herself to her fate. Though as she mounted the steps to her room to stow her things and fetch a parasol, her indignation at being out maneuvered gave way to a light fluttery feeling in her stomach natural to any young woman who has been finally given the honor of going driving with a gentleman. And the more she thought about Sir Anthony's gentle jousting, how keenly he seemed to see through her excuses with those sympathetic, blue eyes…she couldn't feel annoyed with him, and even found herself grinning into her mirror as she smoothed down her dress and tucked a wayward curl out of sight.

When she peeked through the front windows of the Abbey minutes later, there was Sir Anthony, true to his word. His team consisted of two beautiful bays, lashed to a Prussian blue curricle that could not fail to inspire passionate admiration in Edith. She hurried through the door and climbed up beside him, taking his proffered hand and noting how strong and capable it seemed.

"I must pass on the thanks of Boreas and Zephyrus, they are very glad to be out and about," he gestured to his horses as he named them.

Edith smiled. "Winds. How very appropriate," she approved. "And wasn't Boreas supposed to have fathered a group of horses?"

"Indeed. Though I cannot like his temper. I do not wish it on Bor here, only the swiftness of his namesake. Shall we see what he can do?"

Edith nodded, and Anthony skillfully twitched his whip and the curricle shot forward down the drive. Edith gave an involuntary yelp of delight. She had never driven so fast in her life, having only driven out with her staid grandmother. In a few moments, she was able to stop clutching her seat and relax.

"I see you did not bring your maid after all," he remarked, as the mansion disappeared from view behind them.

"No, she was busy. I do not have much occasion to go driving, and so Anna is used to a certain freedom in her agenda during the morning," Edith explained, "I thought it silly to take her from her work. I did, however, think that you would have your groom with you." Her face clouded.

"Forgive me for the oversight. I find I like to rely upon myself. A habit I acquired in India. However, I assure you, you are in no danger in my company."

Edith looked at his kind expression and she found she believed him.

They drove on in silence for several moments. Then, Edith said,

"You have beautiful grounds."

He gave a small laugh. "I thank you. I take it you have been enjoying them in my long absence."

Edith smiled sheepishly. "Well I, I wandered onto them when I was a girl and...I didn't mean to, it's just that they join with ours and...I guess I just never stopped. But I will; now you are returned."

He smiled kindly at her. "By all means, continue to enjoy them. I am glad you have made use of them while I have been away. I daresay my flowers and trees were very lonely without me."

"Sir Anthony, I believe you are teasing me."

"I most certainly am not. I hope you may come explore Loxley House before long. It is, I confess, somewhat neglected and shockingly out of date, but it has its charms. Though I find that my library has spilled out into most every room; there are books everywhere."

"It sounds very cozy," Edith said sincerely.

He looked sideways at her. "I used to think so. But after India it seems…quiet." Even as he said it he realized that it was not just quiet that made Loxley feel unwelcome, it was emptiness. He lacked a companion to share it with him.

Edith nodded. "Of course for someone like me who has never travelled, quietude is not so taxing."

"You shall have to see the world someday."

She sighed. "I hope I get the chance. I have not even been to London since mama died, and before that I spent all my time in the nursery-I was too young to do all the things one does in London-to see the sights and museums, to go to Vauxhall… I read an account last week of a balloon rising. Have you ever seen one?"

"I have not."

"Oh I would very much like to see one," Edith sighed.

"In India I once had the chance to see a man fly," he told her, delighting in the look of fascination that crossed her face.

"Fly! How?!"

"He flew for several hundred yards with the aid of an enormous kite and a good wind. Sadly, he ended in a tree with a broken foot."

"Oh, I cannot imagine why you should want to leave such a place for boring old Yorkshire."

His face became serious. "Well, it is not all exotic curiosities. There is great unhappiness there."

"Oh, forgive me. I did not—"

"There is no need to apologize. I merely meant to say that there are things to be enjoyed here in England as well as in the Orient. For instance, in India I could not enjoy the company of a lady of such superior mind as yourself," he stated simply.

She smiled and blushed suitably, and Anthony felt a surge of satisfaction. He knew she too seldom received praise. A moment later she ventured to ask,

"Sir Anthony, what happened? I mean, with your arm. Was it—a duel?" She asked meekly.

He gave a chuckle. "No, it was not. Though it could've been, in my younger days. No, this was one of the slaves in India. Poor devils get treated horribly by some of the masters there. There was one particularly nasty Company official who attacked a young girl in his service and killed her. So a group of the fellows got a hold of some guns and attacked the English section of town."

"How dreadful!" Edith cried. "What put a stop to it?"

"Well, they, or someone else, got the brute who attacked the girl and the Company was able to restore order, but not before bullet came through the window of the restaurant where I was dining."

Edith gasped. "It's a wonder you didn't bleed to death!"

"I had an exceptional surgeon. Hurt like the devil at first, but now it doesn't give me any trouble, and besides, I'm told the sling is terribly dashing." He gave her a lopsided grin.

She laughed. "It's a wonder Brummel doesn't have one. Though I daresay you have been quite put off dining out."

This time it was he who laughed, surprised. "I do dine at my club sometimes, but always with the protection of a cuirass."

They shared a chuckle at this, imagining Sir Anthony with a breastplate fitted over his evening clothes.

"So you will stay Yorkshire?" Edith asked, though the last of her giggles.

"Yes. It is time I try life in England again." He fixed her with his gentle gaze and Edith found she was glad he would not be leaving for India any time soon.

Edith hadn't asked where they were bound, but she was enjoying their conversation so much that she didn't realize that they were headed towards town. Just as they reached its outskirts, Edith looked up to see Mr. Crawley coming towards them driving a stylish phaeton, which could not precisely be called high-sprung, and drawn by a pair of sleek black horses.

He pulled up alongside them, and he and Mr. Napier doffed their hats.

"I say, cousin, if I had known you liked a drive I should have taken you with me," Mr. Crawley said by way of a greeting.

Edith pinched her face and knit her brows into a strained look. "Oh, Sir Anthony was merely taking me to the post office to pick up my subscriptions. I felt too weak to walk there myself."

Sir Anthony said nothing, but brought his hand respectfully to his brim.

"Oh. Well now I've retrieved my phaeton, let me take you. No need to trouble Strallan."

Edith hesitated. "Oh well I'm not sure-you see, that is I-"

"It is no trouble, Mr. Crawley. I will see Lady Edith home safely. She is helping me exercise my horses," Sir Anthony said genially.

"Nonsense, surely you have better things to do. Besides, Mr. Napier and I were heading back to the Abbey ourselves."

Edith, who had been having a perfectly enjoyable time with Sir Anthony, did not relish changing driving partners.

"I believe Lady Edith might find riding with you a little trying for her constitution," Sir Anthony commented.

Mr. Crawley looked affronted. "Now see here, Strallan, if you're implying my cattle ain't up to snuff, it's no such thing. Won these off of a fellow who got 'em from Peyton himself."

"I was merely pointing out that Lady Edith's health seems to have improved since we departed," Sir Anthony gave Edith a conspiratorial smile which she found herself unable to refrain from returning.

"If it's my hand you're insulting then let me tell you—"Mr. Crawley was working himself into a state, but then stopped, as an idea hit him. He smiled amiably. "I believe you are right, Sir Anthony, she does look a might better. Grateful to you. But as to who would provide the better ride, care to put it to the test?"

Sir Anthony perfectly perceived the frenzied greed gleaming behind Mr. Crawley's smile. Mr. Napier sensed it too, and began trying to capture Mr. Crawley's attention.

"Do you propose a race?" Sir Anthony offered.

"Exactly, so! Knew you'd catch my meaning. What about it? Thousand pounds make it more sporting? What do you say, Sir Anthony?"

Mr. Napier's attempts became more insistent. "I say, Pat, not a good idea. Don't need to get any further under the hatches," he said under his breath.

"Nonsense. He ain't the man he used to be, and look at that clunker of a curricle," Mr. Crawley returned in kind.

Sir Anthony had taken the few moments to consider the challenge. He put out a hand. "A thousand pounds it is, Mr. Crawley. I'll trust you to set the route."

It was decided that while Mr. Crawley and Mr. Napier established a route, Edith ought to be taken to the Grantham Arms and be given some luncheon, as the hour was much farther advanced than any of them had realized. A messenger was sent to Downton Abbey to inform the household that Mr. Crawley, Mr. Napier, and Miss Crawley were dining in town, information that was met with satisfaction by the Dowager.

As they pulled away from Mr. Crawley's carriage, Edith gave voice to the concerns that had been troubling her ever since talk of the race began.

"Sir Anthony, are you sure this race is quite wise? I've heard that races can be dangerous. And this does not appear to be a racing curricle, though of course I know nothing of such things. But truly, do not let my cousin bully you into anything foolish."

He grinned down at her concern. "I assure you I would never do so."

Had Edith ever been to town, or indeed had the privilege of society gossip, she would have had no reason to fret. For she would know, as the rest of the fashionable world knew, that Sir Anthony Strallan was noted to be a capital whip—or at least he was, before he disappeared to India. He had taught himself to handle the reigns one-handed long before it had become necessary, could drive to an inch, and was known to have an impeccable eye for horseflesh. He'd given up racing after he married, though as a husband he could still be seen negotiating London streets with skill in a handsome barouche, and then once Lady Strallan had died he'd gone to India and no one had heard of any feats of horsemanship since. But those who still remembered knew he was at home to a peg, and had he not settled down upon marriage, it was widely believed he would have become one of the leading members of the Four Horse Club.

But Edith did not know this, and so it was with considerable anxiety that she waited at the appointed finish to learn the outcome of the race, imagining Sir Anthony being overturned, or breaking his other arm, or worse still, riding into town in the back of a wagon rather than perched atop his box.

The route that had been decided took Sir Anthony and Mr. Crawley through town, along the river, past Grantham Church, and finished in the inn yard of the Grantham Arms.

The sight of two gentlemen in smart equipage would have aroused interest on any day in the town, but when they were lining up with the clear intention of racing, it brought a modest crowd. Edith pushed herself to the front so that she was able to bestow a last fretful look on Sir Anthony before he turned to his horses and the curricle lurched forward. The watchers then returned to the inn, and Edith was soon held in conversation with her grandmother's lawyer. Amid the bustle, Edith lost track of Mr. Napier, and so was left to her own devices to pass the thirty or so minutes it took the gentlemen to return, trying in vain to repress thoughts of disaster. This was hard to do as two gentlemen near her were loudly recounting a series of gruesome racing incidents they had witnessed—including one where a racer was pitched from his seat and trampled to death by his own horse.

At long last, Edith heard the thundering of hooves and clicking of wheels that meant the race was nearly over. She rushed outside along with the rest of the onlookers to see Sir Anthony and Mr. Crawley bowling into to town, Sir Anthony so close to the phaeton's tiger seat that his horses could have bitten it. Edith almost had to close her eyes as, at the last moment, Sir Anthony expertly turned his horses and shot past the phaeton with only inches to spare, taking the lead just as he pulled into the inn yard. A cheer erupted as he brought his curricle to a halt and a greatly displeased Mr. Crawley reigned in beside him.

Edith hurried to where Sir Anthony was alighting and shaking the hands of his many admirers.

"Oh I thought you had been overturned!" she cried breathlessly.

"Never."

"Well, Strallan, it appears I owe you a thousand," Mr. Crawley, fairly purple, said as he joined them. "Thing is, I don't have it at the moment. Don't suppose you'd accept my vowels?"

Sir Anthony waved him off. "Don't trouble yourself, Mr. Crawley. We'll consider it settled."

"But sir—"

"I'm obliged to you for the chance to put my horses through their paces. I trust I will see you at the ball tonight?"

"Yes." He bowed curtly. "Your servant, Strallan." And with that, he hastened to his phaeton and drove off, leaving the absent Mr. Napier to find his own way home.

Sir Anthony turned to Edith. "Now then, after I have had some refreshment and given Bor and Zeph a chance to rest, what do you say we finish our drive?"

* * *

Regency Expressions Used in this Chapter and their Meanings:

A sweetgoer: a horse with an easy action

Marble cover: romantic novels at the time were published serially, and often with marble covers

Curricle: stylish and speedy (in the right hands it could reach speeds of 16mph!), the curricle was a two-wheeled carriage which required skill and perfectly matched horses to drive. There were recreational models and racing models; I imagine Sir Anthony's is somewhere between the two.

Boreas and Zephyrus: Greek gods of the north wind and west wind, respectively

Vauxhall: Vauxhall Gardens, the leading pleasure garden in London, site of amusements (including a reenactment of the battle of Waterloo), concerts, and romantic assignations

Brummel: George Byron 'Beau' Brummel; a paragon of fashion who espoused cleanliness and well-tailored simplicity and who was slavishly imitated by scores of gentlemen in the dandy set

Phaeton: the height of fashionable carriages, a light, four-wheeled, often high-sprung carriage with seating for two. The Prince Regent himself drove a high perch phaeton and six—a considerable feat.

Cattle: horses

Peyton: Sir Henry Peyton, prominent member of the Bensington Driving Club, a capital whip

Under the hatches: in debt

A capital whip: a renowned driver

Drive to an inch: having the skill to negotiate one's carriage deftly through crowded London streets

Barouche: an elegant, four-wheeled town carriage, usually driven by a groom but occasionally by oneself (as I imagine Sir Anthony would prefer), which sported a cover which could be raised from the rear in case of inclement weather

At home to a peg: a driver who was skilled enough to be able to manage unfamiliar or difficult horses, including teams of six

Four Horse Club: established in 1808, this driving club featured those coaching enthusiasts who had proved their skill driving a four-wheeled carriage with a team of four horses, which were far more manageable with a team of two

Tiger seat: a tiger was a young boy who served as groom and counterweight on the backs of light and high sprung carriages like curricles and phaetons, there was a small seat or stand just above the rear wheels for them

Vowels: IOU

* * *

Other Historical Curiosities:

As far back as medieval times in China there were kites designed to lift a man for military reconnaissance purposes. These types of kites would continue to be developed, mostly for entertainment, through the Victorian era.

Sir Anthony's winning maneuver is similar to a pastime of sporting gentlemen called, hunting the squirrel. To hunt the squirrel meant one would ride close to the rear of a carriage and then pass sp closely to the wheel they might brush it. This took great skill to accomplish, but was also very dangerous, which usually ended in the victim's carriage overturning.


	3. Chapter: The Third

A/N: Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed thus far! This is turning out to be my favorite of all my fics to write, so I'm glad even a few people are enjoying it. Reviews are always welcome! The fourth and final part to come soon!

* * *

**Chapter: The Third**

"Wherever did you get off to today?" Anna asked as she smoothed Edith's gown.

"Sir Anthony took me driving," Edith told her maid, but Anna's sharp eyes caught the luster in her mistress's which betrayed that there was more to her story. But she simply nodded and said,

"I see. And will you be dancing with Sir Anthony this evening?"

"If he asks me," Edith answered elliptically.

Guiding her charge into her seat at the dressing table, Anna gave a "you don't fool me" smile. Edith caught sight of it in the mirror and grinned back sheepishly.

"What?" she asked innocently, but Anna just laughed.

The faithful lady's maid made short work of Edith's Venetian blonde locks, braiding and twisting them into a fashionable Grecian. Matching silk braids of pink and ivory wove around the neckline of her soft thulian gown, and still more snaked around the hem in eye-catching curls. Long ivory gloves slid over her slender arms, and a pale blue-green wrap draped across her elbows finished the ensemble. It was perhaps the most fashionable thing Edith had ever owned, ordered specially from a first-class seamstress in London, and modified by Edith's local dressmaker to accentuate her figure to advantage. This it did, and Edith couldn't help thinking as she examined her reflection, that she certainly did not look a bluestocking tonight.

More than one gentleman took notice of Edith's modish ensemble when she entered the drawing room, but if her newfound affluence and well-cut gown attracted some companions, she was certainly not without rivals. Beyond the small group of gentlemen who had come forward to be introduced to her, Edith could see a young, giggling blonde of about sixteen holding court among a group of gentlemen, and another group of gallants gathered around a pretty redhead who looked to be at least two years her senior. Among the latter group was Mr. Napier, but she did not spot her cousin or Sir Anthony. She was surprised at the strength of her disappointment upon discovering Sir Anthony's absence, but she had little time to dwell upon it in the flurry of introductions that her grandmother thrust upon her. She was chatting with a merry, if somewhat dim-witted, captain, when she heard a familiar voice enter into the conversation.

"Ah, but surely you mean Louis the XIII, not Louis XIV," Sir Anthony remarked.

The captain looked puzzled, then smiled amiably. "Yes, I think you must be right. Never could keep 'em straight, you know."

"Good evening Sir Anthony," Edith greeted him, and if anyone more perceptive than her military companion had been standing there, they would have perceived the light in her eyes and the music in her voice. As it was, Edith herself was unaware of these things, and proceeded to chat happily with both gentlemen until dinner was announced.

The officer claimed the honor of escorting Edith into the supper-room, and as he did Edith caught sight of Mr. Crawley, entering the drawing room just in time to follow the procession into dinner. He seemed to have no qualms about his tardiness, and was complete to a shade, right down to his gleaming white knee-breeches.

Sir Anthony managed to maneuver into the seat to Edith's right, and as the guests were taking their seats, she remarked,

"I see my cousin spent so much time before his glass that he was quite tardy. Did you suffer that same conceit?"

He gave a small chuckle. "While I hope I may not be accused of slovenliness, I did not arrive after you because I was busy admiring the cut of my coat. I arrived on time, as always. It appears that you, and the remainder of the party, were early."

Edith laughed. "So we were. I am rightfully reprimanded."

As the first course was served, Edith found _herself_ unable to resist admiring the cut of his coat, which was precisely fitted over his broad shoulders. Even his sling seemed perfectly tailored to accentuate his lean, yet still agile, figure. Everything about his dress marked a careful concern without arrogance that was so well suited to the wearer's personality. Edith broke her admiring gaze only to meet her cousin's languid one, and giving a feeble cough she turned her attention to her soup. As she did so she mentally hoped that she would not have to dance with Mr. Crawley.

Yet as soon as the party moved to the main hall and the musicians took their places, Mr. Crawley was right by her side.

"Good evening, my dear cousin," he oozed, giving a sweeping bow over her hand. "You are looking quite remarkably well this evening. Would you honor me with the first two dances?"

Edith lowered her eyes and brought her hand to her face and said primly. "Oh no, forgive me. I take no pleasure in dancing."

"You are certain I couldn't persuade you to just one dance? I believe your grandmother expects you to make an attempt," he gestured to where the dowager was eyeing them critically over her fan.

Edith looked stricken. "I fear my grandmother is very cross with me because I do not care for balls. I usually steal away to the library," she fibbed, "Besides, I do not feel at all well in this crowded room. I shall probably have to call for some hartshorn."

Scowling slightly, Mr. Crawley admitted defeat and embraced escape. "Very well. I hope you may soon recover your good health." He bowed curtly and swiftly exited the room.

Sir Anthony Strallan, who had been standing only a few feet away and heard the whole exchange, crossed to where Edith was sitting. He looked evenly down at her, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Fustian," he said challengingly.

Her eyes widened in surprise, and then she couldn't repress a laugh. She raised her hand and allowed him to take it and lead her onto the floor.

They took their places in the set next to Mr. Napier and the pretty redhead, who Mr. Napier introduced as Miss Swire from York.

"So," Edith said to Sir Anthony as the dance began, "I see you have discovered my secret."

He gave her a crooked smile.

"Anyone with sense can see that you are not at all infirm or a pedant." He said as he stepped towards her, then back. "If Mr. Crawley took any concern in anything beyond his own affairs he would know that." He turned over his shoulder to change places with Mr. Napier and then took her hand as they progressed towards the head of the hall. "Though why you are attempting to convince him that you are is something I do not quite understand."

Edith pursed her lips. "I think perhaps you will have to allow me my way in that, sir, and be satisfied that he deserves this treatment."

"I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours," he said, grinning over his shoulder at her.

If Edith had been impressed by Sir Anthony's one handed driving prowess, she was dazzled by how deftly he steered all moves that would include his right hand so that his partner was holding either his elbow or his shoulder. Though in a critical comparison his skill with the whip far outweighed that on the dance floor, she felt more than one pair of eyes upon them as they moved through the dance. Edith herself had never been reckoned a dancer worth envying, but with Sir Anthony she felt graceful and light and danced more beautifully than ever before.

For the next few dances Sir Anthony did what was proper and relinquished Edith to her other suitors, including the merry captain. But after about three quarters of an hour he was able to indulge his fancy and ask Edith to stand up with him again. Afterwards, the musicians took their first respite. Edith caught up two glasses from the trays that were circulating on the arms of several harried footmen and led the way out into the coolness of the torchlit lawn.

* * *

Mr. Crawley stalked out of the card room and into the great hall, cradling a wine glass in one hand from which he was taking agitated pulls. He had already had a considerable amount of Madeira, but his Oxford days had proved that he could hold his alcohol remarkably well. He knew he could not get foxed tonight right under the Dowager's nose, but he would have liked to. He had had a bad hour at the _ table, and had been forced to present his vowels to at least three gentlemen for a sum well over a thousand pounds. He took another gulp of Madeira as his stomach knotted at the thought of the several notes he had handed over in the past few weeks, plus the debts he owed to his tailor, snuff-maker, hairdresser, and what he owed for the hire of the travelling carriage which had taken him to Yorkshire. He mentally cursed Lord Grantham for the millionth time. It was cruel that he should have pulled the rug out from under him like this! He _must _be made to relent. It had not failed to cross Mr. Crawley's mind that perhaps marriage to a respectable lady, even if not his cousin, might convince the Earl to do so. He scanned the hall, searching for an alternative to the despised bluestocking.

As he did so, he heard the rustling of satin approaching behind him and was moments later the recipient of an insistent rap of a fan on his forearm. He turned, raising his quizzing glass to admire a well-cut gown of gleaming tangerine satin, abundantly tucked and set with small gold beads. This eye-catching ensemble was completed by three long necklaces of thinly braided gold, and a green and orange turban with one enormous plume. Beneath this lavish headdress, a most formidable lady of about forty was smirking mockingly at Mr. Crawley.

"Mrs. O'brien," he drawled in greeting. "What brings you so far from town?"

"I thought it might amuse me to watch you squirming at the end of Lord Grantham's hook. Besides, I wanted to get a look at this cousin of yours."

Mr. Crawley ignored her jibes.

"You here with young Barrow?" He asked without much interest.

In answer, she gestured to a handsome, smirking youth who was conversing with Lady Painswick. Mrs. O'Brien was once a lady's maid to a countess who had blackmailed her way into marriage with a wealthy general. Luckily for Mrs. O'Brien, the general had died at Waterloo, but not before he had been convinced to leave his entire fortune to his wife. Now, Mrs. O'Brien passed her days spending her husband's fortune on any gown or hat or equipage that captured her fancy, holding rout-parties in her Bolton Street house, and gambling badly. She kept a string of handsome young gentlemen as companions, who were content to attend her so long as she ensured their pockets were always full. She was willing to pay their sometimes staggering sums to be able to be kept informed of all the on-dits of the ton, of which she was not precisely a member. She took this knowledge and used it ruthlessly, punishing every person who had ever snubbed or insulted her.

"But I didn't come over to discuss my dancing partners," she said brusquely. "I wanted to give you a warning."

He scoffed. "Warning? Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean your little fiancé to be," she sneered. "Or aren't you going to offer for her after all?"

He gave a smug laugh. "As it happens, I would rather marry an old witch like you, my dear Sal, than marry my dreadful cousin."

"Is that so?" she said with a raise of her eyebrows. "Don't try to gammon me into thinking you're not still in the basket, because you I know ain't out. Don't you forget I was the one supplying the ivory when you lost most of your brass."

"I shan't," he said darkly.

"If you're thinking of changing his lordship's mind, you'd better make sure your little cousin doesn't become riveted before then. Plenty of gentlemen have their eyes on that fortune of hers, some as aren't so picky."

"I ain't fretting. Once they get to know her they'll think twice. She's insufferably bookish and when the old lady's not picking her gowns she's an absolute dowd. Even with her fortune, not many would become leg-shackled to a dead bore without a bit of natural beauty."

"Well, Sir Anthony Strallan is a dead bore himself, so I suppose he sees a kindred spirit in her," she spat, watching with satisfied smirk at the look of angry surprise spreading across his face.

"What?! Sir Anthony? How do you know?"

"You know I've got my ways, but what's more I've got eyes. Danced together twice, him beaming like a love-struck idiot. And she didn't seem to be discouraging his advances. Though why, when she has the prospect of her father's pretty fortune, she should set her cap at a man of his age, I'll never know."

Mr. Crawley's face had blackened into such a foreboding scowl that even Mrs. O'Brien was a little afraid of him.

"They're outside just now," she offered, then drifted away into the crowd.

* * *

"Truthfully, I've never spent a more disagreeable half hour." Edith said, reflecting upon that afternoon's amusement as she and Sir Anthony meandered further and further away from the house. "There I was, imagining all kinds of horrible calamities, and Mr. Napier had completely vanished so that all I had for distraction was Mr. Murray."

He grinned down at her. "I am very sorry to have given you any anxiety. But I assure you I had everything under control."

"Well, you certainly gave my cousin a lesson in humility."

He chuckled. "Sometime I shall have to let you handle the ribbons."

"Teach me to drive? Oh, I couldn't!" Edith exclaimed.

"Of course you could. You'd like to learn, wouldn't you?"

"Well, yes I would," Edith admitted.

"Then you could drive off to all those places you'd like to visit."

"Oh yes," she sighed, sipping at her drink. Then contemplatively she said "I think I'd like a Grecian red curricle, lashed to a pair of white horses. Just as soon as I come into my fortune, I shall buy one and you can teach me to drive it."

He laughed, thinking how remarkable she was, and wholly unexpected. Then, as they reached a bench, Edith sat down and he ventured,

"May I ask you something?"

"Certainly."

"It is none of my business of course, but, do you intend to marry your cousin?"

"I don't know," she sighed. "Sometimes I feel that if I have to spend the rest of my life being a companion to grandmamma I will end up as cranky and lonely as she is herself. Marriage may be my only escape. But that supposes that someone will _want _to marry me."

"Surely there have been offers. Even before you became an heiress."

She gave a rueful smile. "You are very kind, but I am able to say honestly that there were not. Gentlemen don't want—"Edith stopped herself, the rest of her sentence stinging silently: _someone plain and boring like me. _"I do not cut the figure that a gentleman of fashion would want as a wife," she corrected, and Anthony's heart ached to see the way her spirit had wilted. "Any men that may have shown any interest in me have lost it when they set eyes on either of my sisters. They'd rather make love to a married woman than—" Edith's voice broke a little here, but she regained her composure in a stolid bitterness, "or else they don't want to be…burdened with me as a wife."

"What do you mean?"

Edith hesitated. She and Anna were the only two who knew anything about the matter. "…I rely on your discretion, of course."

"You have it."

"Are you…acquainted with Lord Gregson?"

"I believe we have been introduced, yes."

Lord Gregson was the sweetheart of the ton, a handsome, well-dressed ladies' man who was never at a loss for companionship or imitators. But Sir Anthony felt there was something more he ought to recall about him.

"I met him while I was at school in Peterborough. Grandmamma did not wish me to school in London," Edith explained.

"I see."

"Well, Lord Gregson was there visiting...a friend…and…we met. He was very nice and quite charming. Not at all the rake that everyone says he is. He's terribly clever, did you know that? He pretends to love society, but in truth he says it bores him. We exchanged books, discussed all manner of things, went for long country walks—he even taught me to play piquet."

Sir Anthony raised his eyebrows. "Did he indeed! I shall have to test your skills sometime."

"Oh pray, don't. I fear I do not get sufficient practice and my skill is very poor."

Then Anthony remembered. "Hold on, isn't Lord Gregson married?"

"Well, yes," Edith conceded. "That's why he was in Peterborough. His wife, you know, is most…unwell."

"But he made you an offer anyway, the scoundrel," Sir Anthony concluded.

"He didn't exactly offer me a carte blanche, but…well, let's say that Mr. Gregson aspires to heights of fashion that I don't espouse."

"I'm terribly glad you don't," he said forcefully, then softened to add, "You deserve far better, Lady Edith."

She looked gratefully up at him. Her face held such sorrow mixed with gratitude that Anthony couldn't help himself. He lowered himself down onto to the bench and placed his good hand on hers. When she did not draw it away he raised shining eyes to hers and murmured,

"Lady Edith—would you allow me to call upon you in the coming weeks?"

"Y-Yes." Edith answered, surprised at how her heart had begun to flutter. "I should like that, Sir Anthony. I should like that above all things."

As the moments passed, Edith found she liked the way her hand felt beneath his, and she found herself wondering how it would feel to be held in his strong arm.

"Even'ing cuz. I see you have bestirred yourself from your hartshorn."

Edith stood abruptly, turning to face Mr. Crawley.

"Y-yes, I felt much better for some fresh air. Sir Anthony was kind enough to—to accompany me and—to fetch me—a cordial," Edith improvised, her cheeks still warm with affection.

"I was telling Lady Edith only this morning that Dr. Clarkson prescribes fresh air for ailing young ladies," Sir Anthony enjoined, and Edith caught the slight tremor in his voice that referenced their earlier combat.

"It is fortunate for her that you have such knowledge of medicine," Mr. Crawley drawled. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must take Lady Edith in to her grandmother."

And before Edith could protest, he put out his arm, and there was nothing for it but to take it and allow herself to be led inside.

"Now you are feeling better, you simply must dance with me," he said as they stepped into the brightness of the hall.

Edith found herself unable to protest, and before she knew it, she was curtseying to him as the music began.

After a few beats he said, "I am beginning to wonder if Sir Anthony knows something about you that I do not," he kept his face pleasant, but his tone was condescending.

"I imagine Sir Anthony knows many things that you do not," Edith replied, seemingly innocently.

Mr. Crawley's smile faltered for a moment. "He seems to have taken quite an interest in you. Mind you, rigged out properly you ain't half bad."

"I could say the same of you, sir." She answered again, with false meekness.

This time his smile did not hold, but he pressed it back one a moment later. "I believe I have hit upon a hidden wit in you. It is most becoming."

Edith bared her teeth at him, in what was not precisely a smile, as the dance separated them. When they once again joined hands he said,

"My dear cousin, you are young in the world, and so as your older cousin I feel it my duty, in the place of a brother, to warn you about Sir Anthony Strallan."

"What of him?" Edith huffed.

"Don't get your bristles up when I'm only trying give you a bit of brotherly advice. Don't go making a cake of yourself with Sir Anthony."

"What do you mean?"

"I see that you are setting your cap at him. Well, it won't fadge. He ain't on the market. Practically engaged to Ms. Lavinia Swire."

"I am certain you are quite mistaken."

He shook his head. "Can't be. Her mother just told me of it not ten minutes ago."

Edith felt all her disdain rising up within her. "I don't believe a word of what you have told me, Mr. Crawley. You are simply jealous of Sir Anthony because he is as you put it "full of juice" and you haven't sixpence to scratch with!" She fired at him, savoring cutting him down in his own language, which she had learned from Lord Gregson.

With that, she turned to leave him glowering in his place as couples continued their steps around him.

* * *

Sir Anthony watched Mr. Crawley and Edith enter the house, frowning. His first impulse was to march in after them and favor the gentleman with his opinion of his character and behavior. But propriety reminded him that now was not the time or place. Edith, he knew, could hold her own with her dreadful cousin, and he had already stolen more of her company than was proper. A crooked smile lit his lips at the reminder of her consent to his suit. He could hardly believe she had granted his foolish request, or that he had been bold enough to ask it of her. He had merely intended to provide her with entertainment and to pay her the attentions which she lacked in her situation, to give her a friend and ally until such time as she acquired suitors, but he had quickly felt his interest blooming into fascination, and his affection blooming into something far stronger. The evening had pushed those feelings to the fore. Yet his impulsivity left him little time to reflect upon his purpose. Would it be wise to engage such a young wife? He thought of her evening's many dancing partners. They were young, handsome, and confident…surely one of them might make her happier than an aging cripple. While her experience with Lord Gregson proved she was not a complete stranger to love, she had never been on the market. No matter what he felt, was it right for him to offer for her when she had not had the benefit of better offers? He sighed heavily.

"Whatever could be troubling you, Sir Anthony?" A merry, insistent voice pushed into his melancholy thoughts.

"Lady Swire, good evening. I assure I am quite well," he said politely, bowing over her hand.

"Perhaps what you lack is a partner. My Lavinia is unengaged at the moment," she took a commanding hold of his arm and fairly dragged him towards the house. "She is an excellent dancer, indeed several of the gentlemen have asked to partner her as much as three times! Why at Bath there was a gentleman who declared he would not set foot on the dance floor if it were not with her. A Mr. Gillingham, and a very worthy gentleman I am sure!"

* * *

Edith fetched herself a glass of ratafia and sat sipping it, still fuming over Mr. Crawley's behavior, but satisfied in her rebuke. Yet her sense of satisfaction soon melted as she spied Sir Anthony, arm in arm with Lady Swire, who was talking to him in a most familiar and animated manner. She put her glass down as she watched Lady Swire draw him to where her daughter was standing talking to Mr. Napier. In moments, Sir Anthony had bowed low over Ms. Swire's hand and was leading her most attentively into the dance. Edith felt her heart go cold as the truth of Mr. Crawley's words rang true. She felt the painful truth crash upon her at once. Sir Anthony had merely been trifling with her. She was such a fool to think that he would ever want her. He was a man of the world, of London and India, such flirtations were common there. He himself had chastised Lord Gregson for offering to take her as a mistress, but he had never cared enough even to suggest that. She was merely an amusement to fill the time until his engagement was finalized.

Before Edith could slip away to her bedroom to indulge in a good cry, Mr. Grey was at her elbow, asking for a dance. She gave her answer without realizing quite what she was saying, and moved almost numbly into the set. As she her feet dutifully followed the steps, she swallowed her tears, resolved that Sir Anthony must not know how he had wounded her. She must show him that she had understood his flirtation; that she had not mistaken his affections as real, that she herself could harden her heart as fashionable society dictated.

Sir Anthony stood, half concealed behind one of the ornate arches flanking the hall in Downton Abbey, his eyes fixed on Edith. She was sitting, rapt in conversation with a dashing companion, laughing merrily at every other word. As he watched, she leaned in to tell him something in an under voice, and placed one gloved hand on his arm.

He sighed shakily, and retreated further into the shadows.

* * *

Regency Expressions Used in this Chapter and their Meanings:

Complete to a shade: superbly dressed in the height of fashion

Hartshorn: salt of hartshorn was an ammoniated carbonate substance used as a smelling salt, and also taken absorbed in water or as a jelly to settle upset stomachs

Fustian: rubbish

Foxed: drunk

On-dit: scandal or gossip, literally "one says" in French

The ton: from the French phrase "le bon ton" meaning the good taste/fashion, the ton was Britain's high society including peerage, aristocracy, and wealthy merchants

Gammon: to pretend, lie or deceive

In the basket: to be in financial difficulty—from the practice of putting those who could not pay theur gambling debts at a cock fight in a basket suspended above the pit. The term also relates to those purse-pinched stagecoach travelers who could only afford to travel in the boot—originally a large basket strapped to the back of a carriage.

Ivory: die

Brass: money

Riveted: married

Leg-shackled: married

To set a cap at: to try to win one's favor and receive a proposal or offer of marriage

Ribbons: reigns

Carte blanche: monetary support and protection offered to a man's mistress in place of marriage

Make a cake of yourself: to make a fool of yourself; to become an object of ridicule

Fadge: succeed; it won't fadge = it won't succeed/work

Haven't sixpence to scratch with: flat broke


	4. Chapter: The Fourth

****A/N: Thanks so much for all your lovely reviews and support! You are darlings! Will there be a happy ending for our couple? But of course! It's a regency romance! Enjoy! :D

* * *

**Chapter: The Fourth**

Edith woke early, long before the household was up. She had slept poorly and she felt dull and listless.

She dressed in a simple gown, and pulled her favorite cozy shawl over her shoulders. The morning was cool and fragrant and though she shivered, Edith welcomed the still sunrise, plodding on through the dewy grass, listening to the world come awake, inhaling the freshness of spring. She had walked the same path time and time again growing up, soothing her hurt in the solitude of the trees and the lawn and the flowers. Yet even these familiar healing sights and smells could not remove the heartache she felt. She'd thought Sir Anthony cared for her. When he'd asked to pay his addresses she had been surprised at the elation she'd felt, unable to fully appreciate its strength until it came crashing down into despair. With every step she remembered each attentive smile, each admiring chuckle, each sympathetic glance, each gentle touch. How could she have been so foolish as to be taken in? She chided herself for being so green. No sum was enough to tempt any man to afflict himself with her company for life; no one wanted a plain, ink-stained ninny. A girl who had not even done the season, so naïve that she didn't know the difference between flummery and real love. Edith continued to upbraid herself as the tears rolled hot and bitter from her eyes.

"Lady Edith!" Sir Anthony called from somewhere over her shoulder.

Edith blinked and realized her steps had taken her to the border between the Abbey and Loxley. To her right was the three foot ditch that served as a scant separation of the two properties. Hastily composing herself, Edith turned to see him approaching her, his face lit in a compassionate smile that despite Edith's resolution to maintain indifference, tugged at her heart. Don't be such a goose, she commanded herself miserably. He's probably just happy because Miss Swire is encouraging his suit and he won't have to continue doing deference to me much longer.

He approached her, doffing his hat. "Good morning! I hope you are recovered from last evening. You retired quite early. I'd hoped to have the pleasure of dancing with you once more before the fiddlers stopped."

How cruel he was! Yet in town and India and the fashionable circles, such a flirtation was harmless. How was he to know she would be so foolish as to take him at this word?

"Yes, I had the headache. I thought it best to get some rest," Edith said, willing her voice to remain calm and conversational.

He examined her sideways. "You still look a trifle pale," he remarked solicitously.

"Yes, well, I am not used to parties. I shall be myself again by dinner," Edith lied.

At this point they were standing just on either side of the a-ha. He made to step over and Edith put up a hand to stop him.

"You had better stay on your own land, sir."

He frowned. "What is the matter?"

"Nothing is the matter. I simply think it might be advisable for you to maintain your distance." She found herself staring down into the shallow indentation. One look into his clear blue eyes and she would be lost.

"Lady Edith," he said with a gentle sternness, "you do not have to play the convalescent to me. I thought I made it clear last night that I don't buy a bit of that moonshine."

"It is no 'moonshine,' Sir Anthony," she asserted. "I think perhaps it would be better for us both if we end our friendship."

"What?! Lady Edith!"

"You are certain to have other concerns that will make any association between us completely impossible." Edith could feel the tears building behind her eyes. She wanted to run from him before they betrayed her, but he lunged across the ditch and seized her hand in his good one.

"Lady Edith—Edith—please. If I was unclear last night, then forgive me, I want to—"

"Don't feel the need to make excuses. I perfectly understand your sentiments, sir. Which is why I must insist upon ending all but a civil association with you," Edith croaked, managing to twist her hand from his grasp and turning to hasten towards the house.

"Edith wait! Please tell me what I have done to offend you. You seemed so…different last night…I was made to believe my affections were not repulsive to you, that we might share something between us."

Edith stopped, and without turning, over her shoulder said "Forgive me for not understanding your meaning, sir. I am unexperienced in the ways of fashionable courtship. But I must beg you to leave me be."

He was silent for several long moments. Edith felt her sobs coming slowly, huffing silently as she awaited his response. Part of her hoped he would deny it all, that Mr. Crawley had been lying after all, but when he did speak, gravelly and barely audible, he said, "Very well. If that is what you wish. I will bid you good-day, Miss Crawley."

Edith heard his strides disappearing behind her. When she was sure he had gone, she sunk her head in her hand and wept. When that was done, she continued to wander, finding comfort in the movement. He grief-blinded eyes did not register the fields and trees, cottages and farms as she passed, paying no heed to her way, letting her feet take her further along Downton's country lanes, where the May sunshine streamed through forests of thick green leaves.

Coming around a bend, she did not at first recognize the two figures on the path ahead, but as the fog of her heartache cleared, she was surprised to discover Mr. Napier, with his hands clasped tightly around Miss Swire's, bestowing upon her a look of such tender passion that Edith felt quite the voyeur. She turned to retrace her steps, but it was too late.

"Miss Crawley!" Mr. Napier called after her, and she turned to face him.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to-to interrupt," Edith stammered, still blushing at the intimacy between them.

Miss Swire rushed forward, coloring herself. "I think we had better explain ourselves, Miss Crawley," she smiled kindly.

"You see—Miss Swire has just accepted my proposal," Mr. Napier explained, bestowing a warm smile on his fiancé, who beamed prettily.

"Your proposal? You mean, you are engaged? But how can this be?"

"Met Miss Swire in London several months ago, but I wanted to be sure of her, you see?"

"I don't understand," Edith shook her head. She couldn't allow her aching heart to hope just yet.

"Had a devilish successful season, you know. Dozens of young bucks kissing her slippers and all that. Wanted to give her some time to make up her mind."

"So you came with my cousin to Yorkshire to see Miss Swire," Edith surmised.

He nodded. "That's it. Mind you, didn't want to leave Pat to face to wolves alone, either."

Edith frowned. "I can't imagine why you keep his company," she exclaimed hazily, still processing Mr. Napier's news.

"Oh Pat's not a bad chap, really. Just accustomed to having his way. And a bit rolled-up at the moment. Needs to raise the wind somehow. But really he's a fine fellow."

"Forgive me, Mr. Napier, but that is doing it rather too brown," Edith snapped, her rage growing inside her. "If you knew—"she turned to Lavinia. "He told me you were as good as engaged to Sir Anthony Strallan!"

"He didn't!" Mr. Napier exclaimed, raising his eyebrows. "That is too bad of him. Wouldn't have thought it in him to have taken to deception. He must be in deeper than I thought."

"Oh! If I weren't a woman, I'd very much like to—to—draw his cork!" Edith raged, using an expression she had often heard Gregson utter.

Miss Swire gaped in shock. But Mr. Napier simply nodded and said fairly, "Can't say that I blame you. It's high time he had a good set-down. Though I can see why you believed him. Lavinia's mother ain't too fond of me as a suitor."

"She'll come to accept the idea, I promise," Miss Swire said soothingly. "Or we will simply have to wait until I am of age and she cannot do a thing about it."

Edith nodded, understandingly. The Branksome title was an old but financially depleted one. Lady Swire would much rather have secured a nabob of fifteen thousand than a viscount of a mere five.

Miss Swire confirmed this. "My mother wanted the match with Sir Anthony. But neither he nor I desired it. We are most certainly not engaged. It was very wicked of Mr. Crawley to suggest it."

"Are you quite well, Miss Crawley?" Mr. Napier inquired; eyeing Edith's flushed face and set jaw with alarm. "Shall we walk you back to the Abbey?"

"No, I thank you, I am well. If you will excuse me."

She whirled away from the two lovers and ran as fast as her legs could carry her to Loxley House.

In the hour or so since they had parted, Sir Anthony had taken to soothing his battered feelings with a liberal amount of brandy, and so was somewhat bosky when Edith pushed past the footmen and into the library. She looked down upon Sir Anthony, his coat discarded and his long limbs stretched across a faded sofa. He sat up sharply as she approached, muttering a faint protest.

"Lady Edith—forgive me." He rose and shrugged into his coat. His face was a picture of perfect despair.

"No please—Sir Anthony, it is I who must beg your forgiveness. What I said this morning—it was only because—because of my dreadful cousin. He knew that if you married me then he would have lost the inheritance that he was hoping to convince my father to resettle upon him. So he told me—I'm so sorry to have believed him—He told me that you were…engaged—to Miss Swire!"

He strode over to her and took her hand, gazing deeply into her watery brown eyes.

"Edith, I swear to you I am not engaged to Miss Swire, or anyone. I would never presume to declare my affections to someone as lovely as you if I were not free to make a more serious offer."

"Oh I know!" she sighed, loosing some tears. "I've been such a goose to have listened to him. But I thought you were…Well, Michael had wanted me that way and you had been to India and I thought…"

"And I thought you had just been shamming me as well as your cousin. Why should you want an old codger like me? I should have known it was all a hum."

"Can you forgive me?" Edith asked.

"Most readily," he grinned.

Edith smiled at him, drawing his hand up to hold it fondly against her cheek. Then, her expression drooped as a new thought struck her. She sighed heavily.

"What is the matter my dearest?"

"Oh, I was just thinking of my cousin Crawley."

"What of him?" Sir Anthony growled.

Edith could hardly keep the grin from spreading across her face as she said "I simply wonder what will become of him when I marry you and you get his inheritance. He's likely to call you out, you know."

Anthony looked down at her, desire kindling in his eyes. "I don't give a fig for your cousin," he declared, pulling her close. "But as for marriage, there's none can stop me from hauling you before the minister, even if I have to carry you all the way to Gretna Green."

Edith grinned mischievously and allowed herself to be soundly kissed.

* * *

Lady Strallan sat in her bedclothes, bent over the pages of a thrilling romance, her candle fluttering in the warm Italian breeze. Moments later, her husband emerged from his dressing room and climbed in beside her, bestowing a kiss on her collarbone, and the novel was set aside.

"My dear, surely you must know how dreadfully unfashionable it is to read a book in one's marriage bed. Everyone will think I have married a bluestocking," he teased.

"And so you have, my love."

"It doesn't signify. Though," he said, snaking his good hand beneath her shift and placing it on her thigh, "I do hope you won't adopt all of Mme Montagu's customs. I should hate to see you cover these beautiful legs."

"Sir Anthony!" she grinned, aghast at her husband's boldness. But she yielded meekly as he brought his hand upwards to clasp her to him and articulate his ardor in a reverent kiss.

* * *

Regency Expressions used in this Chapter and their Meanings:

Flummery: flattery, false compliments

Moonshine: nonsense; often "a bag of moonshine"

Rolled-up: to have no money

Raise the wind: raise funds, often by borrowing it

Doing it too brown: overdoing it so that it is not credible; exaggerating

In deep: in debt

To draw one's cork: to punch in the nose and cause to bleed; blood being referred to as "claret." There are all sort of delightful boxing expressions that are great fun from this period such as "a bit of home-brewed" meaning skillful boxing from someone not formally trained, "to plant/land a facer" to punch someone in the face, and "bellows to mend with" meaning a person has had the breath knocked out of them.

Nabob: a person who has made his fortune in trade in India (or another foreign country)l usually connected to the East India Trading Company

Bosky: drunk

Shamming: sometimes "shamming it" or "Cutting shams"; lying

A hum: trick or falsehood

Call someone out: to challenge someone to a duel


End file.
